


Give Way

by writergirl8



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 15:30:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3983311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writergirl8/pseuds/writergirl8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything, for the rest of the night, is just natural. They naturally head back into Stiles’ room, where Stiles naturally hands Lydia a Beacon Hills lacrosse t-shirt with his name stamped onto the back. It’s natural when Lydia steals Stiles’ hairbrush and he asks her if he can help her, and he does, tracing it as gently as he can over the silky strands that are dripping water onto his plaid comforter.</p><p>And when Lydia falls asleep buried under Stiles’ duvet, folded inside of his arms, that’s the most natural thing they’ve ever done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give Way

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for this. I also blame Polina (trashstiles on tumblr.) And I am so, so sorry. This is my first smut, and I hate myself, but it also made me really happy. Because... well... Stydia.

If Lydia had been paying attention, she would have noticed the exact moment when her life became more expendable than Stiles'. She could have told someone the day, hour, minute, and second that the chemical makeup of her body changed enough that she would lay her life on the line for Stiles Stilinski.

 

But Lydia, as it turns out, hadn't been paying attention. She hadn't been focusing on how she was changing, or how he was changing, or how the entire world had shifted around them but Stiles was the only person who seemed to stay comfortingly, wonderfully still-- no matter how antsy he always was. And, in the current state of the universe, Lydia only realizes that she would lay down her life for Stiles because she is doing it now.

 

They don't even know the name of their enemy, but they can see her twisted smirk and angry eyes. She's bitter about something. Well, Lydia isn't surprised. They're all bitter about something. The good and the bad guys. There is so much to be angry about in the world, and that's what brings them all crashing and clamoring together.

 

There is sweat dripping from every pore of Lydia's skin, beading at her forehead and across her chest, and yet even in her current state of aesthetic imperfection, all she can think about is Stiles. How to save him. How to make sure that he walks out of this with two sturdy legs and one steadily beating heart. He's got hand-prints all over his face from where he is being slapped, but they're not going to do this.

 

In the beginning, the woman had told Lydia that all she has to do is scream. All she has to do is scream, and divulge a little bit of information, and this can be all over.

 

But Lydia has learned that giving terrible people what they want is never the way to go. She has been stifling her scream for days now, and she is nauseous with it. It keeps attempting to climb its way out of her throat as Stiles' flesh starts to resemble raw meat more and more.

 

(He believes in her. He doesn't think she's going to scream, and she doesn't want to disappoint him. So she doesn't. She watches him get tortured and she doesn't scream for him.)

 

“I could kill you, you know.” The woman says it off-handedly. Like it wouldn't end Lydia's life if her other best friend died. She pictures Allison's unseeing eyes and begins to struggle harder against the rope that is rubbing her skin raw.

 

“Please,” she begs, because Lydia Martin has been forced to learn, in these past few years, that she is not above begging. Anybody can break if the right button is pushed. Had Lydia ever believed that Stiles Stilinski would be her button? No. Does she realize it now? Yes. Lurchingly, wrenchingly yes.

 

“Who the fuck are you?” Stiles asks for the millionth time, earning himself another harsh slap. He takes longer to shake it off, probably because he'd passed out from being punched less than thirty minutes ago. He's been spitting up blood for the last fifteen minutes. He’s wrecked. Lydia doesn't know how much more his body can take.

 

“If I tell you that, where's all the fun?” the woman asks rhetorically. She slides some blond hair effortlessly over her shoulder and flashes Stiles a white-toothed smirk.

 

“What, beating me to a pulp isn't enough entertainment for you?” he asks, words slurred. He's so tired. They've been down here for days, with water droplets from the rain coming in through cracks on the ceiling and dropping jarringly onto their heads. Lydia cannot remember the last time she slept. She cannot remember a time she's been this hungry. She wants someone to save her, but the two people she trusts most to do that are stuck in these chairs with their hands tied behind their backs.

 

How is Scott going to pull off a rescue without Lydia and Stiles? The planning, the figuring out, has never been his forte.

 

God, Lydia's tired.

 

Her eyes drift shut, and she wants to stay awake for him, to be with him, because neither of them can do this alone. They've been fueling each other with their looks and stares and the wordless communication that they somehow perfected after years of the world fucking them over.

 

When Lydia opens her eyes again, it's only because Stiles is screaming.

 

There's a taser involved, and his body is shaking and he's hollering into the darkness of their dungeon and the woman looks so emotionless that it makes Lydia shriek. That amount of detachment is the most dangerous thing in the world. They've seen it a thousand times. That lack of empathy is what gets people killed.

 

“STOP!” she yells. “STOP, I can't take it anymore, stop!”

 

“Why?” the woman taunts. “Why, when you won't scream for me?”

 

“I'll do it,” Lydia says desperately.

 

“Lydia,” Stiles mumbles from the floor, and it's supposed to be an admonishment but it just sounds like an anguished moan.

 

“I don't believe you,” the blond says, aiming a kick at him that makes Lydia's entire body begin to writhe against the chair in anguish.

 

“Just don't hurt him anymore,” Lydia pleads, tears slipping into her mouth as Stiles' body goes limp in the chair. He slides to the left and it tips over, making him hit the floor and let out a groan as his head knocks, hard, against the stone. He's unconscious. He has to be unconscious. She breathes out in relief.

 

“So tell me,” says her new friend, wrinkling her nose disdainfully at Stiles. “What is a powerful banshee like you doing with a pack of werewolves in Beacon Hills?”

 

Lydia startles as she lifts Stiles off of the floor and jabs him, trying to wake him up.

 

“Why are you-?”

 

“Because your scream is more powerful when he's awake,” says the woman. “It's the empathy link, you know. Everything is more powerful. Emotions. Supernatural powers. Sex.”

 

Lydia winces.

 

“How do you know about the link?”

 

“You're a very powerful creature,” she says in lieu of reply.

 

At that, Lydia has to laugh. It echoes bitterly across the dungeon.

 

“I'm just a girl.”

 

“And yet here we are,” she reminds Lydia, scrutinizing Stiles carefully before raising an arm and slapping him across the face. He startles awake, eyes blinking slowly. Then they pop open, and he looks around wildly for Lydia. When he sees her staring at him, he visibly relaxes. “So, 'just a girl.' You're willing to scream to save this boy, despite the fact that your scream is probably the only thing keeping you alive. After you do it, there's no reason for me not to kill you.”

 

Except to get her to do it again, Lydia thinks rationally. But she doesn't know what this woman's game is. They'd been too busy looking into the last threat to see this more prevalent one coming, which is both ironic and depressing because Lydia had been wanting to think about prom hairstyles right about now, not two separate, individual evil supernatural forces.

 

“But you won't kill Stiles,” Lydia clarifies. “If I tell you what you want, you won’t kill Stiles.”

 

The woman pauses.

 

“Is he your bargain?” she asks, looking delighted. “This human being... for you?”

 

It's funny because, from the look on Stiles' face, he's probably thinking the same thing.

 

“You can have anything you want from me,” Lydia says, meeting her eyes fiercely. She wants Stiles to remember her like this. Fierce. “Let him go home.”

 

“Why?” asks the woman. “You're Lydia Martin. I've heard about you. You aren't selfless. You don't make sacrifices. You think about you hair more than you think about the greater good, and your worst days are the days that you wear the wrong heels and skirt together. So. Why him?”

 

“Maybe I've decided to become a savior,” Lydia replies. “Maybe I want to go out with a bang.”

 

“Or maybe,” the woman says musingly. “Maybe you're in love with him.” The room seems to freeze. Stiles' entire body stiffens as his eyes widen, and he musters the strength to lift his chin and look at Lydia. She can see him working it out in his eyes-- moving from 'that's insane' to a sudden consideration of a slew of evidence, all parading across his mind. Because how much of her behavior makes sense now? How many of her actions, so befuddling before, are suddenly clicking into place?

 

“Lydia,” Stiles breathes out.

 

She can't look at him anymore. This is too terrible, and she can't.

 

“I'm right, aren't I?” the woman asks, tapping two bright red nails against her chin. “Interesting.”

 

In a different universe, maybe this moment doesn't stab her in the gut.

 

“No,” Lydia chokes out. “No, I'm not, it's just--”

 

But she's not good like Allison, not prepared for this or born for it, and all of her pieces suddenly seem to be clattering to the ground as she sees the look on Stiles' face. He's fucking wrenched. So is she. She ruined them together. Ruined all of their chances, because it had always felt like there was going to be more time, and 'now' had never been quite right.

 

“I need to think,” says the blond. “Because this is too good not to use.”

 

Stiles keeps his eyes on Lydia as the woman walks out of the room. The door slams shut behind her, loud and final, and Lydia thinks about how scared she would be if Stiles weren't here. Then she thinks about how much easier it would be if he weren't.

 

“Is she right?”

 

It's unsurprising that these are the first words out of his mouth.

 

“Maybe,” says Lydia non-noncommittally.

 

“Lyds,” Stiles says, voice scraping desperately against her heart. “I need-- I need you to--”

 

“Yes,” she says haltingly. “Okay? Yes.”

 

It's not a dirty word, but it feels wrong to say it. Stiles' entire body deflates back against the chair, and there's no moment of soaring joy as he looks at her. Instead, he is defeated. It makes Lydia's heart pound into her throat, because he would have been so happy to hear this three years ago, and then the universe threw this moment into his lap. This is not the fairy tale ending that Stiles deserves. He deserves so much better.

 

“But why didn't you--?”

 

“You were with Malia.”

 

“That long ago?” he yelps. “What about after we--?”

 

“I was scared,” she says, shouting it to the ceiling, because what part of that doesn't he get? “You had moved on with someone else, and then you were sleeping with her, and then you were broken up and I was scared because what if she was the one you pined after now? What if she was the one you were thinking about?”

 

“Lydia,” Stiles rasps. “I only ever think about you.”

 

She half-laughs, half-sobs, because they are tied to chairs on opposite ends of the room and she has never wanted physical comfort so badly. She wants to kiss him. She wants him to hold her and tell her that everything is going to be okay. That the happy endings that she has never believed in or chased after are actually infinitely possible.

 

“I don't know how I was supposed to know that,” she says instead. At this point, maybe it's easier to drive a wedge between them.

 

Stiles kicks it out of the way.

 

“Lydia, I was with Malia because... because I loved you so much that I couldn't stand the idea of having to stop. I thought that being with someone else would... stamp down the fire. That if I put my feelings into somebody else, loving you wouldn't hurt so much. And then we could be friends, and I could still love you like that, and I wouldn't have to lose you.”

 

“You lost me anyways.”

 

“But I thought that backing away from you for a few months was better than having to do it for a lifetime.”

 

He's such an asshole. She honestly wants to kill him.

 

“Did it work?” she asks dryly, and there's nothing okay about the fact that he had chosen to test this hypothesis while Lydia was grieving the loss of her best friend. She had needed him, and he had been running a fucking experiment.

 

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut.

 

“No.” There's silence for several moments. Then: “Lydia--”

 

“Stop,” she says, voice harsh. “I can't right now, Stiles. Okay? This isn't... I don't want this right now. This isn't what I want.”

 

He doesn't speak again until Scott bursts into the room one day later with a heavily bleeding Kira, an Isaac with a few bones out of place, and a slightly burned Derek. And Lydia is grateful that he is willing to respect what she wants from him. But when they untie his wrists, the first thing he does is lurch over to her and undo the ropes that bind hers together. And as they run out of the room, she doesn’t stop him when he takes her hand in his.

 

\---

 

“I can’t go home.”  
  
She thinks it’s obvious why not, but apparently Stiles doesn’t, because he frowns at her.

 

“Do you not feel safe there anymore?”  
  
And Lydia shakes her head, watching as the streetlamps briefly throw Stiles’ face into sharp illumination.

 

“I can’t wake up and not have you right there,” she says, clearly but quietly. She’s not going to be ashamed anymore. There’s literally nothing left to hide. “I’m not going to sleep without you.”   
  
She doesn’t mean for it to sound like a demand, but it does, and Stiles doesn’t really seem to mind.

 

“Okay,” he agrees, eyes not leaving her face. “You wanna come home with me?”

 

When he asks, Lydia feels like she can breathe again.

  
“Yes,” she says in a puff of air.

 

His dad doesn’t say anything as Lydia trods into the Stilinski household right behind Stiles, feeling considerably smaller so far out of her element. She’s been here before, but never quite so ripped and torn. Their bodies are weak and underfed; their minds have been starved just as much. Lydia’s heart stings like the cuts on her face and lips, and the only salve that she’s been able to depend on is Stiles.

 

They sit at the table, sipping on broth slowly in order to get their systems re-accustomed to eating. Eventually, Stiles’ father suggests Lydia take a shower. He doesn’t ask why she’s here. He doesn’t ask whether she plans to leave. Just tells Stiles to offer her the guest towels and pushes his chair back from the table to head to the sink, stopping for a moment to press a kiss to the top of Stiles’ head as he goes. They aren’t a particularly affectionate family, but they love each other deeply, and in moments like these, physical intimacy can be invaluable.

 

That’s why Lydia is here. Isn’t it? She wants that physical intimacy. She wants to feel close to someone. And she wants that with Stiles. She wants his breaths in her ear, and the beat of his heart pressing against her chest, and the warmth of his fingers splayed across her hip. She wants every living piece of him.

 

“So, you said something about a shower,” she says abruptly. Stiles stares at her, soft-eyed, until she raps a knuckle against the table and he startles to alertness.

 

“Huh?”  
  
“Shower.”

  
“Right!” Stiles agrees, leaping out of his chair. “Um, yeah, hang on. The shower’s this way.”   
  
He leads her to the back of the house, hands dancing along the walls as they walk through the small, darkened hallway. When they are almost to the door that leads to his bedroom, he ducks into a room and flicks on the light.

 

“Here,” he says. “Um, so you just turn the knob like this. Yeah, you got it. And then… um… pull the thing to make it go from bath to shower. Right. I’ll get some clothes for you to wear when you get out, okay?”  
  
“Okay,” she says quietly, and she starts undressing before he closes the door, stepping quickly into the shower.

 

There’s a few random bath products and a single, relatively new bar of Irish Springs soap. Lydia grabs the first shampoo bottle she sees and pops the cap, sniffing.

 

Stiles.

  
Without bothering to smell any of the other shampoos, she pours the shampoo onto her palm and begins lathering up her hair. She rinses it, making sure to stay under the spray for extra long to get all the soap out, and that’s when the door pops open.

 

“Lydia?” Stiles says, voice a bit too loud. She peers out from behind the curtain to see that Stiles is holding one hand over his eyes and is brandishing a towel in the other hand. “Hey, I’m sorry, I’m covering my eyes, I swear.”  
  
“I can see that,” she says, almost laughing.

 

“I just forgot to give you a towel. But, um, here one is. So I’m just gonna put it on the counter.”  
  
“Thanks, Stiles.”   
  
“Yeah, no problem.”

 

He starts to head out, and Lydia can feel him leaving the room; can feel him getting further and further away, and she can’t stand it.

 

“Stiles!” He whizzes around so fast that he forgets to put his hand over his eyes. He sees her for about two seconds, then grunts in surprise and squeezes his eyes shut. “Stiles.”   
  
“Uh, yeah?”  
  
The water is still pouring down around Lydia as she stares at him, just waiting for her. Waiting. For her.

 

“I need you to… just…” She hesitates. “You can open your eyes.”   
  
He does so slowly, the furrow between his brows increasing. And then Lydia’s just standing in front of him, completely bare as he looks into her eyes. Something inside of her stills, just like it had the first time they kissed. She feels that same calm rolling over her as she stares at him, this boy who she had never paid attention to until he had already become the most important person in her life.

 

“Lydia?”  
  
His voice startles her, and she squeezes her eyes shut.

 

“Can you please… just… Stiles, I--” Two tears slip rapidly from her cheeks, disappearing into the water. “I need you to hold me right now.”

  
Without blinking, he toes off his shoes and climbs into the shower, tugging her body against his. She tucks herself into him immediately, pressing her nose against the hard line of his shoulder, back shaking, and he runs his hands over her sopping wet hair, humming lowly in her ear.

 

The back of his flannel is soaked through, but he doesn’t seem to care as he holds her, letting her cry.

 

“I’m sorry,” she says eventually, pulling back. “I’m sorry, I just--”  
  
“I love you,” he says.  
  
She bites her lip and blinks, and when she opens her eyes, she is looking at a different person. She is looking at a boy who is hers.

 

They clean her together with bar of soap, Lydia’s back pressed against Stiles chest as he slowly runs the bar of soap over her stomach and breasts. She is comforted by the soft up and down breathing of his chest, and it takes no time for her to match up their breaths.

 

Everything, for the rest of the night, is just natural. They naturally turn the water off. Head back into Stiles’ room, where Stiles naturally hands Lydia a Beacon Hills lacrosse t-shirt with his name stamped onto the back (and he’s never getting it back.) It’s natural when Lydia steals Stiles’ hairbrush and he asks her if he can help her, and he does, tracing it as gently as he can over the silky strands that are dripping onto his plaid comforter.

 

And when Lydia falls asleep buried under Stiles’ duvet, folded inside of his arms, that’s the most natural thing they’ve ever done.

 

\---

 

Stiles becomes Lydia’s shadow, and she his.

 

More than ever before, they have begun to mirror each other. It’s not necessarily a conscious thing, but on some level it is, because somehow she is always aware of when he enters a room. The air changes, and then Lydia is uncontrollably cognizant of where Stiles is standing, what he’s doing. Whether or not he’s looking at her.

 

Usually, he is.

 

After the first night, her mother chastises her for not sleeping at home. But then next night, Lydia shows up at Stiles’ house, demands the t-shirt she wore last night, and crawls between the covers of his too-small twin sized bed. He doesn’t do a victory dance or make jokes about it. Just buries his nose in the crook of her neck, wraps his arms around her waist, and tugs her close. They don’t kiss goodnight. They don’t talk about it or question it. They just quietly exist together, lingering in some realm between friendship and romance. It is the most intimate place Lydia has ever been with anyone.

 

A few weeks after it all happens, the scars on Stiles’ face are starting to heal. They can both return to normal eating habits. And they’re training themselves into habits centered solely around each other. Stiles has started drinking tea before bed, and Lydia has started brushing her teeth to the same song as Stiles brushes his teeth to every night. She feels irretrievably tangled up in him, and so much less broken when his threads are keeping her tied together.

 

Because of that, Lydia feels ready to talk about it.

 

Breaking tradition, she finds Stiles directly after school, catching up to him as he heads to his jeep. He doesn’t say anything; just unlocks the door and watches her clamber in after him, determinedly avoiding his eyes. Stiles drives until they reach his house. Gets out of the car, throws the keys onto the dashboard, and follows behind Lydia as she goes up the front steps and tugs the key out from underneath the turtle to unlock the door.

 

The house is empty-- the Sheriff is still at work-- so Lydia walks briskly through it, kicking her heels off along the way. She ends up in Stiles’ living room, carefully scrutinizing the chairs before settling on the loveseat. Stiles follows a few minutes later with a bowl of swedish fish and a patiently curious look on his face. Lydia doesn’t mind. She wants to take this moment slow.

 

“So,” Stiles says eventually. “What’s up?”

 

The light that is streaming through the window is making his eyes a brighter amber color, and it’s making Lydia want to melt right into the couch.   
  
“I wanted to tell you that I accept your apology,” Lydia tells him primly. “About… what happened last year.” She wrinkles her nose at the way her voice dips slightly.

 

Stiles looks startled.

 

“You do?”  
  
“I do.”   
  
He hesitates, scratching his nail against the surface of the couch.

 

“These past couple of days… did you change your mind?”  
  


For the first time, he seems vulnerable.

 

“About what?” she asks, genuinely confused as to why he can’t look at her.  

 

“About… me,” he mutters. Lydia is silent, trying to process. “About loving me.”   
  


She doesn’t know if she should laugh at the too-casual look on his face, because Stiles Stilinski has picked up Lydia Martin worthy defense mechanisms, and that’s kind of amazing in and of itself. He used to wear his emotions in his eyes and on his sleeves. Now, he’s hiding.

 

“No,” she says. “Did you change your mind?”  
  
“Never,” he responds, the answer coming out too quickly. He clearly hadn’t thought about it before he said it; it just happened. Stiles still won’t meet her eyes, and Lydia needs to see him, so she gets off of the loveseat and walks slowly to the couch that he is sitting on. He lifts his eyes up towards her, and for the first time, he allows some sort of pleading to come through.

 

She could easily tell him that she never plans on hurting him again. But it appears that Stiles doesn’t believe her when she uses the words that they’ve always been so good at together. Instead, she settles onto the couch on top of him, her knees on either side of his body. He stares up at her in amazement as she settles her hands onto his shoulders and leans down to kiss him, hair falling over one shoulder, shielding them from the rest of the world.

 

Stiles kisses her like he doesn’t think she’s ever going to let him do it again. His mouth, always so snarky, is suddenly ravenous as he works his lips over hers. It’s fitting, Lydia thinks as he steals her breath, because they’ve wasted so much time. But right now, they’re not wasting any. She’s not going to let them.

 

“Let me lay it out for you,” she says, pulling back. He’s staring at her like she’s the sun and the moon and the sky and it makes her want to kiss him again. “I want you. In every possible capacity. I want you in my life, I want your friendship, and I want you to know that I’m yours. Got it now?”

 

“Mine,” he echoes, tracing the word slowly. He glances down at his fingers.

  
“Ten,” Lydia says drily. “Count ‘em.”   
  
“Oh god,” he groans. “Okay. This is real.”   
  
She starts to smirk at him, and that just makes him growl in frustration before kissing her again, long fingers tangling into her hair. It is hot and open mouthed and just a bit too wet, but Lydia wouldn’t have this kiss any other way. Any other way would be contained, and she doesn’t want this to be contained. This is the one thing that both of them can be free in. There’s nothing supernatural here-- it’s just them.

 

When his hand moves down from her hair and onto her skirt-covered ass, Lydia decides it’s time to be the voice of reason.

 

“Come on, Stiles,” she says, brushing her thumb over his cheek. “We aren’t doing this in your living room.”   
  


He lets out this strangled half-laugh, half-moan, and Lydia realizes that she had involuntarily bucked her hips over his when she’d said that. Laughing breathily, she kisses him. He stands up, still kissing her intently, and Lydia wraps her legs around his waist as Stiles begins to walk them to his bedroom. She stifles a moan within his kiss as the zipper on his jeans catches on the hood of her clit, making her rub harder against him. The movement only lasts for a few seconds before Stiles slams her against the wall in the hallway, trapping her there with his hips. He gives her a disbelieving grin before he’s suddenly sucking and biting at the skin by her collarbone, digging her shoulder blade into the wall.

 

“Shirt off,” he instructs against her skin, and Lydia doesn’t need to be asked twice, chucking it to the ground before reaching behind her back to grab at the clasp of her bra. Stiles is still paying homage to the skin that has already been revealed to him, but as Lydia drops her bra to the floor, he doesn’t waste any time in moving from her neck to her chest. He trails his lips downward, brushing them against her skin and dropping kisses at the top of her breasts before wrapping his lips around her right nipple.

 

“Dammit, Stiles,” she groans as her eyes involuntarily slide shut and her head knocks back against the wall. She can feel him smiling around her breast and contemplates murdering him as she feels the low rumble of a laugh against her skin.

 

There’s an obscene pop! as Stiles releases her nipple, and the sound goes straight to Lydia’s core. Stiles seems to like it too, because his fingers squeeze slightly where they rest on Lydia’s ass and he bites his bottom lip just before he dives in to lave at her left nipple. But the look on his face is enough to make Lydia decide that she can’t wait any longer to be lying on an actual bed, so she taps Stiles twice on the back.

 

“Bedroom,” she says, rubbing a bit more intently against him where he is hard underneath his jeans. “Or else we’re doing this on the floor in the hallway.”

 

“That might be a terrible idea, but I actually can’t remember why,” Stiles says, breathing slightly labored. Lydia laughs.

 

“We’re having sex on a bed, you idiot.”  
  
Maybe the fact that she’d vocalized what they are about to do jolts Stiles back to reality, because the smile slips off of his face and he just stares at her, eyebrows slightly raised, mouth popped slightly open. He nods at her briefly before walking slowly to his bedroom, and Lydia presses her lips to his when he starts moving. They kiss more slowly this time. They’re going to do this-- no matter what. There is time to spare.

 

The drapes are closed, but Stiles doesn’t turn on the lights. He just kicks the door shut with his foot and walks them both over to the bed, depositing Lydia there first, then following her. As he kisses her, she lets her hands drift from his ass to his shirt, slipping her hands underneath his hem to press her palms flat against the warmth of his back.

 

“Off,” she demands, but the word is lost inside of his kiss. She takes matters into her own hands, tugging the shirt up over his head, and Stiles sits up so that she can pull it off. For a moment, Lydia, propped up on her elbows, just stares at his chest. Namely, the happy trail that disappears all the way down into his jeans. It makes Lydia rub her thighs together, totally unprepared for how attracted she would be to this particular attribute. She had known that she loved Stiles’ personality and his face and his hair and his eyes and his smile and his stupidly perfect butt. But she hadn’t expected to be so attracted to his arms, and his torso, and a fucking happy trail, goddamn it.

 

Abruptly, she sits up, curving her palm around his cheek and tugging herself closer to him until their bare chests are pressed together. He moans, the sound drifting in the air between them as Lydia kisses his neck and chest, giving him a hickey just right of his sternum. He slides his hands underneath the waistband of her high waisted skirt, dipping them to cover her ass. When he feels bare skin there instead of underwear, he swears. Loudly.

 

“Okay,” he says, disentangling himself from Lydia and pushing off of the bed, backing away from her. He faces the wall for a moment, breathing hard, his hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders hunching forward. Then, slowly, he turns around. Stares at Lydia splayed out across his bed, waiting for him in nothing but a skirt and her thong. “Say it again,” he pleads, voice naked.

 

“Stiles, I am so in love with you,” Lydia breathes out. She grins. “Happy?”

  
He presses his lips together and nods wordlessly before speed-walking back to his bed and dropping to his knees in front of her, on the floor at the foot of the bed.

 

“Scoot backwards,” he says. “And take off the skirt.”  
  
She does as he asks, settling back until she has her back against the wall, his pillow behind it.  Lydia watches his face carefully as she unzips her skirt from the side and neatly slides it off, revealing nothing but her pink thong. His breath hitches, and for a moment, he just stares at where the fabric is a darker color from her wetness.

 

“Fuck, Lydia,” he mutters. “How is this happening right now?”  
  
There’s so much emotion on his face that she starts to feel it as well, and it spreads from her toes, to her head, until a lump starts to form in her throat. Lydia laughs, covering her hand with her mouth.

 

“Do something about it,” she instructs, because she is aware of the fact that sex and emotions go hand in hand when it comes to Stiles, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t desperate to get off right now.

 

“Will do,” he says, squinting his eyes slightly as he considers. In the next moment, Lydia lets out a gasp as Stiles slithers back onto the bed, ducking his head between her thighs and pushing her panties aside.

 

Lydia panics, scrambling out of her lounging position.

  
“Wait!” she says. Stiles looks up at her, frowning. “I- that’s very nice of you, it’s just… nobody’s ever done that to me before.”   
  
He looks shocked.

 

“Wait. What?”  
  
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” she warns. “It’s no big deal-” (it’s totally a big deal) “-it’s just that Jackson never wanted to, and then there were other guys who I only hooked up with once or twice in the most casual capacity possible, and by the time I started dating Aiden, I had realized that I didn’t want to be that… well… vulnerable to anyone.”

 

“Not even-?”  
  
“No, Stiles,” she says shortly.

 

“Okay,” he says, trailing it, and when Lydia feels his breath puffing out against her, that’s when she decides.

 

“Okay,” she repeats, surprised at herself.

 

“You’re gonna let me?” he asks quietly.

 

Lydia confirms it by lifting her hips to slide out of her panties, dropping them to the ground beside Stiles’ bed. He swallows hard. Takes her hand and presses it against his cheek, then presses his lips against the inside of her wrist. When he turns his focus onto her center, Lydia realizes that his pupils are completely dilated, his eyes focused intently on the task.

 

Oh god. That’s his thinking face. That’s the face he uses when there’s a puzzle and he’s about to solve it. He’s looking at her pussy like it’s one of the mysteries that they solve together, all adrenaline and knowledge and crazy ideas.

 

She’s just starting to panic again, because she knows exactly how Stiles gets when that look is on his face, when he suddenly presses his tongue flat against her and licks from her entrance to her clit. Lydia’s body pulses in surprise, and she sits up slightly, eyes widened and lips parted. Stiles glances up at her, looking for her reaction. When he sees the look on her face, he grins and ducks back down, face out of view.

 

“Oh my god, Stiles!”

 

He licks broad strokes, nosing her clit with every pass, and that, plus the image of Stiles’ head between her legs, is what begins to send Lydia hurtling towards the edge. She’s never been loud in bed, but she does release small groans whenever Stiles nudges at her clit, and as he goes on, it gets more and more difficult to keep quiet.

 

When Stiles moves from her entrance to her clit, circling it lightly with the tip of his tongue, Lydia knows that she’s totally screwed for the rest of their relationship. She’s never going to win any fight ever again, because Stiles has the power to take away this, and she fucking loves this.

 

Lydia isn’t really gone until Stiles has wrapped his lips around her clit and is humming contently around it. He adds a second finger, then a third, and that’s when she explodes, coming with a loud cry that seems to rip through her body, clawing at her throat until she’s forced to release it into the air.

 

When she opens her eyes, Stiles is lying on the bed next to her, staring at her looking far too proud of himself.

 

“Shut up,” Lydia says, voice weak. Stiles laughs.

 

“I didn’t say anything!”

 

“You were thinking it.”   
  
He stares at her as he innocently sucks one finger into his mouth, then another.

 

“Is that a banshee prediction or a supposition based on the look on my face?”  
  
“Second one.”  
  
“Right.”

 

She rolls over, knocking her head against his shoulder. For a moment, she rests her forehead against the muscle there, trying to catch her breath. Eventually, she begins to press kisses against his shoulder, moving up his neck and to his mouth. He catches her lips with his, kissing her sweetly, still smiling.

 

“You’re still wearing pants,” Lydia mumbles against his lips.

 

“I unzipped them,” Stiles says, sounding upbeat. “It was helpful.”  
  
“Well, it would be even more helpful if you weren’t wearing them at all.”  
  
Stiles beams.

 

“Are you trying to get me naked, Lydia Martin?”  
  
She rolls her eyes.

  
“I liked your mouth better when you weren’t talking, Stiles Stilinski.”  
  
“Okay,” he says amicably, and he kisses her, nipping playfully at her bottom lip as he does. They kiss until Stiles is moaning into Lydia’s mouth, and when she runs her hand up and down his bare back and pulls away, he wastes no time in shucking off his pants, then his navy blue boxer-briefs, kicking them to the floor.

 

Lydia can’t decide which she prefers: The happy trail, or what it leads to.

 

But she doesn’t have time to think about it because suddenly Stiles is rolling on a condom and hovering above her, looking adorably nervous as he stares down at her, his arms on either side of her head.

 

“You okay?” she asks, finger lazily making circles in the space between his shoulder blades. She’s already come once, and the fire that has been raging through her has been quelled, falling into something quieter yet equally as distracting. She wants him.

 

“I’m in this,” he says. “Lyds, I don’t know if that was clear but… I’m so in this. I’m not going to half-ass anything with you.”  
  
She shakes her head against the pillow, unable to stop staring at the seriousness and intent in his eyes.

 

“I’d beat you up if you were half-assing a relationship with me,” she says, enunciating the words clearly. He chuckles.

 

“You totally would.”  
  
“Nunchucks.”   
  
“Throwing stars.”  
  
“Plus, the ancient art of mind-fuckery.”

 

His laugh rumbles through him, and she can feel it somewhere deep in her stomach, making her kiss him.

 

“Love you,” she mutters against him, just because she can. “Ready?”  
  
“Ready,” he reaffirms, and there’s only a small pause before he pushes into her, exhaling shakily as he does. “Oh god.”   
  
She sighs, head dipping back into her pillow.

 

“Oh god,” she agrees. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, and Lydia wraps her hand around his wrist, waiting for him. Slowly, he opens his eyes and begins to move. It’s absolute torture for her, and she knows it must be for him. It’s just enough to make her desire ramp up from her cunt to to her heart and her throat, finally spreading out her mouth when she can’t take it anymore. “Stiles, please,” Lydia begs, and with a strangled moan, he begins moving faster, breath coming out in short spurts.

 

“Fuck, Lydia. Fuck.”

 

She tries to pay attention to the way he keeps wetting his lower lip, and the way his voice is huskier than usual as he moans in her ear, and the way his eyes are drifting shut, his lips parted. She wants to keep everything about this moment, from the shade of his eyes to the sweat beaded at his upper lip. But eventually she has to close her eyes as well, only focusing on raising her hips in the same rhythm as his are slamming into hers.

 

“‘M so loud,” Stiles mumbles, ducking his head into her neck. The vibrations of his moans against her already sensitive body makes Lydia’s eyes roll back in her head. Because as she winds strands of his hair around her fingers, she suddenly becomes utterly cognizant of the fact that this isn’t a fantasy. Stiles Stilinski is inside of her, he is in love with her, and he is hers.

 

His moans are getting louder, and all Lydia can think about is how beautiful he is; her broken boy. She’ll heal him, and he’ll heal her, and this is the first step.

 

Lydia keens against him, her hips snapping vigorously into his.

 

“I’m gonna come,”  Stiles whimpers. “You close, Lys?”  
  
She breathes out in a long puff of air as he moves a hand down to vigorously rub her clit, not waiting for an answer. She’s just on the edge when his body seizes up and he begins to come, the angle changing slightly as he tilts his head, and his drained body, to the side. In his final thrusts, his public bone catches Lydia’s clit and she falls after him, palm of her hand slamming back against the wall, hips arching towards Stiles’ body, chasing him.

 

Stiles breathes once, twice, three times before pulling out, clearly concerned about crushing her. There’s a few moments of silence as they both lie there, considering what they’ve done. Lydia glances over at Stiles’ breathless form, and the familiarity of his face makes her heart pang. She is overwhelmed with how giddy she is, and she is unable to do anything but stare at him, a smile tugging at her lips because she is too speechless to put this into words.

 

As he is opening his mouth to say something, Stiles glances over and sees that look on her face. He licks his bottom lip before biting it, eyes intent on her smile. And then he sighs lightly, rolling over so that he is diagonal on the bed, his head resting on her chest. She hesitates only briefly before beginning to stroke his hair, a wave of emotion crashing over her as he nuzzles at her breast.

 

“You’re really quiet in bed,” he observes sleepily.

 

“Yes,” she replies slowly, not knowing what he’s getting at. “I always have been.”  
  
“It’s okay,” Stiles yawns. “I can fix that.”   
  


She knees him.

 

“I’m not a mystery for you to solve.”

 

“Well that’s not true,” he replies, looking up at her and shooting her a cheeky grin. “Besides, now we can solve you together.”   
  
She looks down at him, suddenly seeming so innocent and harmless. She knows that he has one of the most dangerous minds she’s ever gotten to experience firsthand. His moral compass points at “whatever will save my friends” and his understanding of the world exceeds that of many of the adults they know. But when they combine, they create something incredible. They can put things back together-- put themselves back together.

 

They’ll solve him too. They can do that now.

 

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” replies Lydia. “We should try doing, oh, I don’t know, normal things before we leap into my crazy.”  
  
“You’re not crazy,” he says immediately, voice stern. “And normal like what?”

  
“I don’t know. What do normal couples do?”  
  
He fucking beams at the word couple; it lights up his eyes and makes Lydia wonder when the first time she will be able to introduce him as her boyfriend will be. Because if this is his reaction at the word couple, imagine how they’ll feel when she can proudly claim him to be hers in public.

 

But then she thinks about how she wants to love him quietly; in a way that doesn’t invite anybody in but themselves. When they do this, it’ll be for them. Not for other people.

 

“What do normal couples do?” Stiles repeats musingly. “Um, dirty talk? And you can be on top next time.”

 

Stiles smirks knowingly as Lydia rubs her thighs together in a way that is apparently not surreptitious enough.   
  
“Yeah,” Lydia says breathily. “That sounds good.”  
  
She imagines Stiles’ voice, low and hoarse in her ear, whispering about how she feels around him as he bites and sucks at her earlobe. Oh, fuck. He’s a disease. He has invaded her veins and he is a disease.

 

“And aside from that,” Stiles says, eyes drifting shut. “We can go to the movies. Hang out and watch Netflix. Go to the drugstore and have a malt.”  
  
“All of this without any bad guys around?”  
  
“Mhm,” he says, .

 

“Well. How very ambitious of you.”   
  


“It doesn’t have to be all about monsters all the time.”  
  
“Even if it is, we can keep doing stuff we always did,” Lydia says. “Solving puzzles.”  
  
“Did you mean foreplay?”  
  
“Calling each other first when there’s a dead body.”   
  
“Foreplay.”  
  
“Bickering like we’ve been married for twenty years.”  
  
“Aaaand foreplay.”  
  
She laughs. “Glad it’s not just me.”  
  
“God. Definitely not.”   
  
When he looks up at her, Stiles is so youthful and adorable that Lydia instantly flashes back to the ridiculous third grader who had tugged on her braid and shyly offered her a Valentine and who Lydia had left behind. She’d never even considered him as anything but a weird, silly boy. Now, she’s factoring him into every piece of her life. What classes does she have with him? When can they walk down the hall together? When is her mom not home so that they can have sex on Lydia’s far larger bed? And what can she do to make sure that the way he’s looking at her never, ever stops?   
  
There’s no way to will them to stay together. That’s fairytale. That’s wishful thinking.

 

And yet. This might be the only thing they actually have control over in their lives. Everything spirals out of control, but when it’s just the two of them, lying in bed together and talking, it feels like Lydia’s default setting. At all times, instead of doing what she is doing, there is a one-hundred percent chance that she would rather be right here. With Stiles Stilinski.

 

“I’m scared of not being able to keep you,” she says quietly, because maybe voicing it will make it go away. It doesn’t. Stiles’ face falls into something more serious. He props himself up on his elbow, facing her.

 

“I know. Me too.”  
  
She nods. Thinks about kissing him, but doesn’t move.

 

“There are so many things that could go wrong.”  
  
He begins to draw an “L” on her collarbone with his index finger and she thinks about how it felt inside of her.

 

Aside from all the complications that comes with being in a relationship with someone, Lydia is starting to realize that she will probably never get any work done ever again.

 

“We can’t really think about that,” he says, looking like he’s trying to stifle his anxiety. “I just want to think about how to stay in bed all day. With you.”  
  
“Right. Just the two of us. And sour patch kids.”  
  
He blinks.

 

“What?”  
  
“I’m craving them. Do you have any?”  
  
“Um, not in the house. I can go to the store?”  
  
“That would require too many clothes.”  
  
“We have gummy worms in the pantry.”  
  
“Sold,” says Lydia, and she pushes back the covers and grabs her panties off of the floor, tugging them on before locating the shirt that Stiles had been wearing and pulling it over her head. When she turns around, he’s still on the bed, mouth slightly open, eyes wide. Lydia sighs, stomach fluttering with butterflies. “Fine,” she says, taking off the shirt and crawling back onto the bed. She hovers over him as she kisses him, and his hand blindly fumbles around his dresser for another condom.

 

Both of their phones vibrate. Simultaneously.

 

“Aw, shit,” Stiles says, banging his head against his pillow. “Lydia.”  
  
“I know,” she grumbles, snatching his phone from the floor and typing in his passcode. “It’s Scott. Pack meeting.”  
  
“That kid has been cockblocking me since we were six,” protests Stiles. “Let’s stay.”  
  
“Sure, that seems like a good idea. Supernatural creatures on the prowell. Why don’t we ignore the only other people who have the power to stop it?”  
  
“I know, right? Seems like a great idea.”   
  
“Up,” Lydia says, kissing him briefly, dragging her nails lightly down his bare chest. “We can pick up some stuff from my house on the way back, anyways.”  
  
He looks cheerful suddenly.

 

“You’re sleeping over tonight?”

  
“Of course I am.” She pauses on her way out the door, headed towards the bathroom to clean up. “Hey, Stiles?”  
  
“Yeah?” He looks dreamy from where he lies on the bed.   
  
“Are you going to show me how to work the shower again?”  
  
He’s off of the bed before she can finish the sentence. Clever boy.

 

 


End file.
